


Back home

by ZulaPopcorn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 23:12:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12592660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZulaPopcorn/pseuds/ZulaPopcorn
Summary: This is my contribution to the Reddit's Art/Fic exchange, for u/NightingalesEyes





	Back home

**_Drakonis, 9:42 Dragon_ **

Keeper Deshanna had gathered the clan two days ago to reassure them. Help was on the way, she'd promised, in the form of Duke Antoine’s own men, to protect them against the bandits that had been harassing them for weeks. Most of the clan had been skeptical, and rightfully so. The promised help had never arrived.

***

Athelwyn had sent word. Someone would come.

Why, then, could Fiowyn only watch in horror as the bandit ran his sword through Deshanna’s chest? For a moment the woman just stood there, an expression of utter shock on her face—then the man pulled his sword out, causing a short spray of blood to land on his face. As Deshanna fell to the ground it kept seeping out of the wound, pooling on the rock beneath her. Even from that distance, Fiowyn saw the light leaving her eyes.

They were so few left now, they wouldn't be able to hold much longer. Each passing minute diminished Fiowyn’s hopes of seeing the Duke’s men coming to their aid, until all that was left was but a speck, swiftly snuffed by the sword she saw cleave though Midha’s tiny body.

The bandits had run out of defenders to kill and were dragging terrified children out of the aravel now, some kicking and screaming some simply staring into space, their eyes glazed over. She had to do something. She had to— She began to run, but  her wounded leg betrayed her and she tripped on Midha, crashing face first into ground. Her chin hit the cold hard rock beneath her, and the taste of copper filled her mouth. Through the ringing in her ears, she could still hear the children screaming, but one after the other, they fell silent. Fiowyn stayed down, cradling the lifeless body as she began to sob uncontrollably.

How long she stayed there, she wasn’t sure, but when she looked up, she was alone and the child in her arms was cold. The Keeper was dead. Her friends were dead. The children— She let go of Midha and stood up, looking around at the corpses littered around her.

Athelwyn had failed them.

 

**_Cloudreach, 9:42 Dragon_ **

“—and then Hawke said, ‘Looks like the Duke has fallen from grace.’”

Athelwyn was enjoying a rare moment of leisure, playing a game of Wicked Grace with Varric by the fireplace in the great hall, sipping tea. Things would have been perfect if she hadn’t been Inquisitor. As it were, even now, when she should have relaxed a little and forgotten about the Breach and Corypheus and all that magic crap she wanted nothing to do with, anguish gnawed at her insides. Still, the respite felt nice, and she laughed and shook her head as she dealt a new hand of cards. “I want to say that you just made that up, but I’ve met her. I believe you.”

“Rabbit, you wound me. I don’t—” Varric cut short, his gaze darting behind Athelwyn, and she glanced over her shoulder.

Josephine’s assistant was approaching their table at a brisk pace, and Athelwyn’s heart lept. She had been awaiting news of her clan for almost three weeks now. Maybe word from them had finally reached Skyhold.

“Inquisitor,” the woman said, bowing, “Ambassador Montilyet wishes to speak with you in her office at your earliest convenience.”

In Josephine speak, that meant _right now_ , so Athelwyn shot an apologetic glance at Varric, who simply nodded, and got up to her feet. “Thank you, Eleanor. I’ll see what she wants.”

Thankfully, her office was close by, and she managed to refrain from running on the way there. As she stepped in, the first thing she noticed was the mess on the Ambassador’s desk. That was unusual—Josephine was always so meticulous— but the reason for it instantly became apparent. Josephine looked abnormally agitated, shuffling papers on her desk and pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear constantly, when she didn’t really need to. Athelwy’s stomach sank. That felt very, very wrong. As Athelwyn approached the desk and cleared her throat, Josephine started, and as she looked up, her whole demeanor changed. The smile she had been readying to greet her visitor died on her lips and her shoulders slumped slightly. She got to her feet and rounded the desk, taking Athelwyn’s hands in hers. “Inquisitor, I must—”

Athelwyn jerked away, feeling dizzy. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Surely the news Josephine was about to deliver had nothing to do with her clan. “What _happened,_ Josephine?” she asked, her voice sounding muffled to her own ears.

Josephine didn’t respond. Instead, she picked up a sheet of paper from her desk and handed it to her. Athelwyn took it reflexively, and began to read, even though a part of her wished nothing more than to  toss the it into the fire—as if ignoring it would somehow erase what had happened. If only.

 

_...your Dalish allies…_

Allies? That sounded wrong. Clan Lavellan was not an ally. They were her family. They had been since her coward of a mother had left her at the foot of an aravel in the dead of night, when she had been only a few months old.

Even though it became clear as she grew up that Athelwyn was indeed of Clan Lavellan, the daughter of a woman who had run away to the city in search for adventure, she had never felt particularly Dalish—but she _had_ felt at home with them.

Iseris and Zathan had taken her in, raised her as their own along with their real daughter. They had answered her incessant questions with infinite patience, scolded her when she misbehaved, reassured her when she had nightmares, kissed her booboos away. They had loved her.

And now they were dead, and it was her fault. She should have sent soldiers, or scouts. She should have sent help herself, not trust some nobleman she didn’t even know to act in the best interests of her clan. She should have _gone_ herself. She had owed them that much. But it was too late now. Nothing she did could make things right.

 

... _been scattered or killed…_

Scattered. She couldn’t help but hold on to that tiny sliver of hope. Had Fawn survived? That was unlikely. She was brash, always eager to go “adventuring”, which usually meant “do something stupid that would get them all into trouble.” Or get herself killed.

Killed. Athelwyn numbly wondered if Varrith, always smiling, always with a quip on his lips, had died cracking a joke as the shemlen sword pierced his gut. Probably not.

Scattered. Athelwyn couldn’t help but picture Keeper Deshanna deciding to abandon the fighters to their fate so she could escape with a few others, guiding them to safety. And the truth was, Athelwyn couldn't even blame her for that. How many times had she decided of the life and death of other people? How many times had she sent soldiers to their death because that was the most pragmatic decision? She understood now.

Killed. Fiowyn. Her best friend. Her _sister_. Always so protective of her, always ready to get in trouble with her. No. She couldn’t be dead—she just couldn’t. Some of them had survived, it was in the report. Fiowyn had to be one of them, though if she was, she must hate her now. She would have been waiting, she would have trusted her to protect the clan, even from afar, and Athelwyn had betrayed her. Still, if she hated her, that meant she was alive. That would be better than the alternative. Anything would be better than the alternative.

 

_...little left of their clan._

What of the children? The elderly? There was little chance that they would have been able to escape. So many dead, and she could have prevented it. If she had been the least bit competent, she would have prevented it. How could she be expected to save the world if she couldn’t even care for her own family?

Athelwyn was vaguely aware of Josephine speaking now, but she couldn’t quite make out her words. She didn’t care about the platitudes. Her clan had been massacred. How could a few words make her feel better in any way?

Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t see the words on the page anymore, she couldn’t feel anything but a growing emptiness inside and she was so weak, she needed to sit down, she needed to scream, to hit something, to—

“Thank you, Ambassador,” Athelwyn heard herself say, her tone devoid of any kind of emotion. Clutching the report against her chest, she left the Josephine’s office without saying anything more.

As she walked out, it hit her. She had always imagined that she would be able to go back. That once the Breach was closed and Corypheus defeated, she could leave that all behind and go home.

She had no home left to go back to.


End file.
